


Fires in the Night

by HelloTroggy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 10:02:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20307664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloTroggy/pseuds/HelloTroggy
Summary: Post-resurrection/Pre-Battle of the Bastards. Jon and Melisandre's outlooks are dim and their spirits seek each other out to be rekindled. One Shot.





	Fires in the Night

“There is a fire in you, Jon Snow. A fire that strengthens those who follow you. I saw it before your death, and I see it now.” implores the Red Woman, reaching out a pale hand towards Jon’s own gloved hand. In the past, he would have recoiled from her touch, but they had both changed. They had both suffered an incalculable loss that scarred their essence. He could feel the warmth of her through the leather, in response he shifted his hand to hold hers in return to offer whatever comfort could be had from the gesture. “I don’t feel whatever it is you’re talking about. My days are as bleak as this winter, and my nights are more desolate.” His gaze turned to the solitary brazier within his camp tent. 

She could see the small fire reflected in his deep, dark eyes. That reflection pulled her from her seat across from him to her knees at his feet. Without thinking, she pressed kisses to the hand that held hers, tears brimming in her eyes as past and present tormented her with knowledge and dread. His hand stayed still under her lips, and there was no effort to return the affection. Her eyes turned up to his, her promised prince. “I would share my fire with you, if you would have it.” her voice was soft and unsure. So unlike the strong, confident, dulcet tone it had been when they had first met at Castle Black. But then, Melisandre of Asshai was no longer the prophet to foretell the glorious reign of King Stannis Baratheon as the returned Azor Ahai. She had been wrong, so very wrong. Her error had killed so many good men, and she had been brought low in her anguish over her arrogance. When she had offered herself to the Lord Commander, Jon Snow, it had been the act of a temptress to lure him into her own machinations. But now…? Now, she was a woman afraid and seeking comfort of the body from an honorable and good man. 

She raised slightly to the level of his face, her eyes asking the question should dared not give voice to. His rejection would hurt if given, and it would be final. But it did not come. He instead raised the hand he held to his face, stroking it against the coarseness of his beard. In a delicate grip, she cupped his face and pulled herself up to gently kiss him. It was not an urgent exchange, or a particularly forced one. There was tenderness between them, as two people who desired the warmth and comfort of another’s body in the cold that surrounded them. She stood up from their kiss, and began to work open the stays that held her gown closed. In kind, Jon removed his gloves, and began to work at the chest piece he wore. She stood bare before him, but did not presume to expedite his nudity, allowing him to set his own pace for what was to come. When he was down to breeches and tunic, he pulled her closer to his core. No gooseflesh rose on her skin, but the warmth of him was still a relief from the chill that invaded the tent. His large, calloused hands gripped her hips with a gentle firmness, as if to say ‘This is not for love’. It hurt to know what there could never be affection between them, but there could at least be heat.

Jon leaned his head into the crook of her neck, and began to press kisses into the flesh above her shoulder. Melisandre gave a soft sigh, but her hands remained at her side. “Will you touch me, my lady?” Jon’s voice tickled her ears with it’s softness and the slightest hint of gravel. Tentatively, she raised her hands up under the tunic that covered his torso, her fingers gliding over ragged scars and supple skin while bringing the top up and over his head. His skin was pin pricked and his nipples were taunt. They moved over to the camp cot together, but Jon gently laid her down before joining her. His form loomed over hers, his dark eyes smoldering with so many emotions and memories. Melissandre cupped his face again and smiled sadly, “We may stop if this is not your desire, my prince.” In wordless response, Jon shifted the breeches off his hips and tossed them to join the heap of his clothing. He pressed a kiss to her left knee and trailed more up to her center. At this touch, the fire priestess shivered. This uncertainty had fundamentally changed how this experience would be for her; she the submissive one, and he the one to lead their pleasure for now. 

He cupped her sex and began by rubbing his thumb on her pearl, gently massaging it. Soft sounds escaped her throat as he increased the tempo of his ministrations. When he added a finger inside her, she shuddered. He found her impossibly warm and so slick with excitement. With his other hand, he began to stroke his cock. The cold was a challenge, but he stroked himself until the only thing on his mind was the inevitable conjoining they would have. Jon took his hand from her sex, sucking the juices from her sex off his finger. Her breathing had quickeded, but she remained composed and patient. He lined his member up to her entrance and eased inside her, reveling in the welcome feeling of being inside a woman. He took a moment to become accustomed to her before he slowly began to pull and push into her. Melisandre’s eyes closed and her head tilted back against the furs on the cot. She raised her arms above her head and let the pace he set carry her off like a tide. His pace increased as the pleasure grew, becoming more and more erratic. He could feel a bloom of great heat forming within her that seemed to thaw the hard, cold center of him that he’d come to accept since his return from death. 

And when their release came, the heat poured out to envelope them both. A sheen of sweat glistened on his chest and face as their pleasure receded. She rolled over to sit up on the cot, unsure of what to do next. The dark curls of his hair were moist with perspiration, and hung lank around his face, now perfectly serene from the exertion. She stood and redressed herself and left him in his tent. The night had grown darker since she had last been exposed to it, but the fire within her had been rekindled so that the way ahead glowed brightly.


End file.
